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A hunt, they told them. A restless Lady [Name] wanting to get out of the castle.
Which is true, of course. She has been wearing a path into the rug in her bedchamber, and she can only entertain herself for so long. She imagines the maids are sick of seeing her wander from the library to the kitchens and back into the training yard. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, and her mind is running faster than she is able.
It’s a beautiful spring day. The sun is shining in a cloud-dotted sky, and just feeling a horse beneath her thighs is already lifting her spirits. It aches, but there is nothing else she’d rather be doing.
There’s a copse of trees ahead, and that is where they head. The grass whispers against the breeze, the branches overhead swaying and creaking as the horses slow. Valarr, beautiful, turns in the saddle to look at her. His two-toned eyes glint in the light. He smiles, so young and relieved: they’re alone, free.
Her heart is thrumming in her chest when he pulls up on the reins. She does the same without second thought. Their horses stop, and Valarr jumps down, holding a hand out for her. It feels like he kisses her before her feet even hit the ground.
His arms wind around her middle as her hands clasp his face, his smooth cheeks, so soft, achingly familiar. Just as familiar as his hungry mouth and the wetness of his tongue. Still kissing, not looking where they’re going, he drags her away from the horses. They stumble behind a gigantic tree. He draws her down until she spills into his lap, her knees digging into the grass and roots on either side of his thighs. His mouth drags down to her chin, then her neck, her head falling back with a soft breath. She has missed being in his arms.
“You taste the same,” he marvels.
Her heart is in her throat, but a giggle manages to slip past it. Her fingers are in his hair, silky and distracting. She knows what he means: it’s been so long and she feels like a wholly different person now. “As do you.”
“I’ve missed you,” he breathes against her neck. Surely he can feel her pulse against his lips, trembling alongside her hands, her thighs. She cannot stop shaking.
“You see me,” she whispers. Even here, all alone, they are quiet. Their secret world.
“It’s not the same,” he says, and for the first time there is gravel in his voice. The unreleased anger and despair that consumes him. The next time he speaks, it is gone: “I long to touch you every hour, every minute. A second doesn’t go by without my thinking of you.”
“Such a charmer,” she teases because otherwise she would burst into tears. Her voice sounds wrong, hardly able to hold it in.
Valarr pretends not to hear it. He clasps her cheek and slots his mouth to hers, their breath coming together as their tongues brush, her core throbbing. She wriggles in his lap, desperate for him and his touch. The wetness is unbearable.
Valarr clutches the back of her head as he eases her down. The grass pricks at the back of her arms, but it is oddly comforting: it keeps her here, in the moment. She knows that all she will have to do is remember the smell of the breeze and the scratch of the grass to be transported back here.
His weight against her thighs and hips makes her ache. She clutches him like she is drowning and he is pulling her free. There will be bruises left from her fingers along his ribs, his biceps. He doesn’t seem to mind. He even leaves bruises of his own as he clutches her forearm, holding it by her head as he attacks her throat again, down to her chest. Her dress is tight, so he draws the fabric as far as he can and kisses the top of her breasts. His mouth is hot and wet, parted in a lusty haze. She squirms beneath him and Valarr nips her, which brings out a gasp. He has the nerve to smirk up at her though his pretty eyelashes.
He draws her dress up until it pools around her hips. He clasps her thigh, then slides his fingers up and under the dress, gripping her hip before moving to cup her ass, his blunt nails digging in. He can’t stop moving, touching, claiming. Then he sits up and he’s undoing his pants, and the way he looks right then, with the sunlight glinting in his eyes, one brown and one blue, and his mussed hair, and his too-pink lips swollen from kissing—she’ll never forget it. He’s never looked more beautiful.
She fists the front of his shirt and drags him back down. Her legs drop open for him—muscle memory—and then she feels him, dangerously hot, pressed against her cunt. There’s a quick breath before he is sheathing into her and she gasps while he crumbles. His forehead falls against her cheek, his breath tickling her ear. The relief in his loose shoulders, like he has been waiting forever for this, is devastating. Then he’s moving, a slow roll, and she moans, head falling back. The world hangs upside down. She’s delirious and dizzy with need, a mess of breathless sounds as Valarr makes love to her. His fingers intertwine with the hand beside her head. He uses it as leverage to shove his cock deeper into her.
Her knees draw up around his waist, meeting his every thrust. He’s cursing to himself, lashes fluttering, lips parted. They move as one. “Mine,” he says right into her ear. It echoes in her skull. “All mine.”
She twirls the white streak in his hair around her finger and she kisses him. He can hardly focus on the kiss, too busy fucking her, so she shoves him and propels him onto the grass beside her, his cock never leaving her. His back hits the ground with a soft grunt and he stares up at her with lovestruck awe. Then she’s riding him, her breasts heaving beneath her dress, her hands firm on his chest. Valarr grabs her wrist, his thumb right on her pulse. His eyes flutter shut and then his mouth opens and he comes, pumping deep into her. The heat is searing, accusatory. It’s not long before she follows, back arching with a cry as warmth floods through her. She clenches around him, taking everything he has.
Valarr, breathless, sits up. There are bits of grass in his hair. His pupils are blown and he’s half-hard inside of her still. “I don’t want it to be over,” he whispers.
She’s afraid to speak lest she say the wrong thing or cry, so she slips out of him, his seed slipping down her thighs, and she crawls down his body. Her mouth finds his cock and Valarr groans.
She’s missed him.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Their horses have wandered. Not far. They’re within sight, grazing. Valarr and [Name] lay in the grass, her head on his chest and his arm around her waist, staring through the leaves and into the endless sky. He plays with her hair.
“We may have to catch some animal,” she says, breaking the silence. Her thighs are sore and trembling. After he came in her mouth he returned the favor, and by the time she finished he was hard and he fucked her again. She had let the tears slip silently down her cheeks and Valarr had thrusted harder.
Valarr smiles now. He looks drunk with lust. “A hare, maybe. An easy catch.”
“Thank you for taking me here.” She plays with the fabric of his shirt. Her cheek rests in her palm. “I needed to escape.”
“You ride your horse,” he says. His head falls to the side to look at her. “I see you wandering the grounds.”
“I am no prisoner,” she assures, the ghost of a smile lingering. She’s looking at his throat, the way it moves when he breathes. These little things that she needs to remember. “I get bored so easily.”
“Have you read all the books in the library already?” When she laughs, he adds with a smile, “It would not surprise me.”
“I haven’t,” she says, “but nothing seems to keep my attention. I want to learn. I want to train like you.”
Valarr lays his arm behind his head. She can’t believe she’s here with him, all alone. “I can train you. You will be a great jouster.”
“I’m serious.”
“As am I, darling. None of those fools will know what’s coming for them.”
She snorts. “Yes. A woman.”
Valarr smiles. “Will you ask to sit in on meetings, too?”
Her nose wrinkles before putting her chin on his chest. “I have no interest in politics.”
“Nor I.”
Her mouth falls open. “You’re a future king,” she says, gently smacking his arm.
“Not for many, many years,” he says before she can tease. A soft silence falls, an unspoken understanding of what they will not say. His eyes see through her for a moment, his mouth pressing into a line. Coming back to himself, he says, “Perhaps a Maester can come teach you anything you desire.”
She pouts. “I’m no child.”
“Oh, I know that,” he says, squeezing her hip. He turns onto his side until they are facing each other, laying like a husband and wife in bed. It makes her eyes water, but she blinks the tears away before they can spill.
“I have a tourney in a fortnight,” says Valarr. He stares at her mouth. “You’ll be there?”
“Most likely,” she sighs. The sun is so warm on her skin and she is so happy; her eyelids are heavy, but she fights sleep. She refuses to waste a single second.
“You’ll cheer me on?”
“Don’t I always?”
“When I win,” he says, tracing a finger down her cheek, “it’ll be in your name. Even if I can’t say so.”
Her smile is kind and warm, even if a little sad.
When she plays with Valarr’s hair, his eyes fall shut.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
[Name] has always been more sensible than Valarr. When she says it is time to return, he’s quiet—a thunderstorm brewing. It’s hard for her, too, but they need to use their heads. The longer they stay out here, the stranger it will look. She can’t afford any suspicions.
They hold hands as they venture after their horses, stepping around and over gnarled tree roots. “It’s so quiet here,” he says, voice low with reverence. He’s trying to be strong, trying not to say what they are both thinking and dreading. For these last few moments, they can stay in their little world, utterly alone.
“We can come here again,” she offers. There is no telling if that can ever happen again, but hope is all they have anymore.
Valarr breathes deeply through his nose, but he smiles at her. “I hope so.”
She is so enraptured with him, trying to remember everything—his hair in the breeze, his beautiful eyes, the curve of his mouth—that she doesn’t look where she steps and her foot slips and she spills forward from the root she’s standing upon. Valarr’s hand is on her arm within a second, but not quick enough: her ankle twists and pain shoots right up her leg. She cries out.
Valarr holds her steady. His eyes are big. “My love, wh—what—”
“My ankle.” The pain is throbbing. When she tries to put weight onto it, she hisses between her teeth.
Valarr takes a knee, head tilting. “Shit,” he says, drawing out the word. “It’s already swelling.”
“I cannot walk on it,” she says, shaking her head.
“Don’t.” He meets her eye. Concern lies there. He looks between her and the horses, only a few yards away now. “Wait here. I’ll get them.”
He eases her hand from his steadying shoulder and onto the tree beside her. The bark is rough and slightly sticky against her palm.
As he grabs the reins of both horses, she calls to him, “I won’t be able to ride, Valarr.”
Valarr brings the horses to her, their soft snorts filling the silence. “I know.” He takes a fortifying breath. “You will ride with me. Your horse will follow.”
Panic rips through her. “But your fa—”
Valarr snaps, “I don’t give a damn. You are hurt.”
Her mouth parts and her eyes water beneath his voice.
The throbbing is only getting worse. Did it snap? She tries remembering if she heard a break, but it all happened so fast and the anxiety has washed her mind of all coherent thought. Either way, it hurts: the mere thought of trying to walk or ride with it makes her dizzy.
Valarr brings his horse as near to her as he can with the uneven ground. With her arm around his neck, he helps her higher onto a root, giving her less distance between her and the saddle. He’s strong: he helps her up onto the horse. Her face pinches as her foot dangles off the side of the horse, looking so frail. Valarr hops on behind her, the reins of her own horse in his hand. “My love, the horse…” His jaw tightens. “I will go slow, but it will hurt, regardless.”
She shakes her head. “What else can we do?” she says so quietly.
Valarr sighs hard through his nose. Their dream has been shattered and they are ripped back into real life.
He kisses her temple. A long, lingering kiss. There is no guarantee when the next kiss they share will be.
The horse starts to walk. At least they have the journey home.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Hardly any words pass between the two as they ride on. The jolting of the steps isn’t as painful as she worried, but there are some hoofbeats that seem to rattle straight through the horse and right into her ankle. She has always been strong against pain, so she just grits her teeth and prays to be back home, even if it means the end of her time with Valarr.
When Summerhall comes over the horizon, Valarr gives one last squeeze around her waist before letting his arm drop. Her head hangs, guilty and ashamed. She wishes she could heal the hurt in his heart, but there’s just no way.
The gates stand tall at the end of the road. Valarr’s mouth tightens before he calls out, “The wife of the Hand is hurt!”
There are three guards. One of them steps forward. “My prince?”
Valarr stops at the guard’s side. “Doran, the Lady is hurt. Her ankle. I had to seat her on my horse.”
Doran and the other two guards work to open the gate. As they do, under the creak and rattle of the iron, she says under her breath, “Valarr, you will need to call for Baelor.”
It is a testament to her pain and consternation that she uses his father’s name. The muscles in his jaw shift, but his mouth stays shut.
“Valarr,” she hisses. She has told him before: You need to think like a man who doesn’t love me. What would that man do?
As they are waved through, he turns to Doran and says, “Inform my father.” His voice is tight, dripping with poison. It is a wonder that none of the guards seem to notice, or if they do, they attribute it to something else. Heat radiates from him at her back; she worries his anger will burn her.
In the courtyard, Valarr swings down from the horse. His eyes are hard as he holds his arms out and scoops her up. And she, the idiot, winds her arms around his neck. She resists the urge to tuck against his chest, even when every muscle in her body screams to. Tears threaten to spill, but she refuses.
Her feet dangle as he carries her like a bride. Is she imagining the silence in the courtyard? Does anyone see the way he is holding her with such reverence and familiarity? Or do they see a concerned young man with his father’s bride, fearful of getting in trouble? She prays it is the latter. Gods, let it be that.
Valarr lets no one touch her as he mounts the steps of Summerhall. Someone has run off to alert Baelor, undoubtedly, but all she can think of is how close Valarr’s neck is to her face—in front of everyone. After so long of hiding, she feels as if her dress has been ripped from her body for all of the world to see. And he seems proud to have her in his arms, like he is living out a fantasy that has always been on his mind.
As they pass through the open door, a cool wind enters with them, causing the torches’ flame to flicker along the walls. Lazy shadows slide along with them. There’s the sound of a door opening, and then Baelor steps out from a room. He’s too far, but her face burns at the sight of him.
“What happened? What is wrong?”
“Her ankle,” says Valarr. His face changes in front of his father: stern, suppressed. “It twisted on a tree root, Father.”
Baelor crosses the hall. As always, she is bashful before him, but even more so in his son’s arms. He assess her face, and she wonders what he could possibly be seeing there: guilt? Shame? Can her husband feel the arousal stirring in her belly as he cradles the back of her head? She looks up at him—as does Valarr, a coldness behind his pretty eyes.
“To our chamber,” declares Baelor. Father and son fall into step as they walk down their ancestral hall. “Tell me all of it.”
Valarr draws in a breath before he begins: “We were on our hunt, Father. We found a copse of trees and I hoped to find a small animal for us to capture, but her foot slipped on a root. There were many of them. I should have seen it coming. I’m—sorry, Father.”
“Accidents happen, Valarr,” says Baelor. His soft, smooth voice is soothing, and [Name] wishes she could curl up in a bed of that voice and escape the world.
They mount more stairs, flanked by guards, and then there is their bedchamber. A maid opens the door upon seeing them, her eyes pinched with worry as her Lady is carried into the room. “Here, son,” says Baelor, gesturing towards the table where they sometimes have breakfast. The maid clears the table of its few belongings as they approach. “My thanks, Jenny,” he mutters over his shoulder as the maid passes.
Valarr gently seats her on the edge of the table. The loss of his warmth and touch is startling.
Baelor kneels before her. Without a word, she lifts the hem of her dress. She is blushing furiously under the attention of her Targaryen men, so she turns her head away, hoping her hair hides her flaming cheeks.
Her ankle is purple. Her husband’s fingers are calloused but gentle as he clutches the bottom of her foot, safe from the swelling. He turns his head back and forth. When he lifts her leg in such a way that she gasps, his eyes snap to her face. “Get the Maester,” he calls. A guard vanishes.
Sweat beads on her forehead. Valarr stands beside his kneeling father, the two of them staring at her. She wishes she could shrink and disappear into the floor like a little mouse.
Baelor sighs. There is no telling what is going on behind those eyes, and she isn’t sure if she’d rather know or not. Perhaps it is best to stay in ignorance. “Darling,” he says. “How bad is the pain?”
“I’ve had worse,” she says, although she cannot for the life of her think of a pain worse than this: her lover, her husband, and her ruined leg.
Horribly, a tear slips down her cheek. The tear is not for the pain, but for this life: loving the son and the father. She hates that she looks so pathetic, weeping over a measly ankle, but it’s better than the truth. She would rather look weak than be shown as the liar she is.
“Oh, darling,” says Baelor. His hand cradles her cheek and his thumb brushes the tear.
With wet eyes, Valarr turns away. She is glad for it.